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<title>I Don't Wanna Go Home Tonight by QueenOfNewOrleans22</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28870605">I Don't Wanna Go Home Tonight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfNewOrleans22/pseuds/QueenOfNewOrleans22'>QueenOfNewOrleans22</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Mötley Crüe, The Dirt (2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Fluff, M/M, Nightmares, Past Child Abuse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:47:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,268</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28870605</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfNewOrleans22/pseuds/QueenOfNewOrleans22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"I have things to do." Nikki replied, and he gestured vaguely down to the notebook that he had laying on his lap, open and with his illegible handwriting covering most of the paper. "Somebody's gotta do the work, can't they?" He smiled, but it was lopsided and weak. </p><p>Blank-faced, Mick stared at Nikki through his peripheral vision. "Go to sleep." He repeated, as if he felt the other words didn't deserve any sort of response. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mick Mars/Nikki Sixx</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I Don't Wanna Go Home Tonight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nikki felt his eyes close, and his hand slipped. The pen skittered off of the paper and left a long ink mark on his jeans. With a rather irritated frown, Nikki rubbed at the mark, but the ink only smeared worse than it already was. </p><p>None of them had been sleeping as of lately. Nikki didn't know why, and he couldn't be damned to figure it out, but as of then - two months after they'd all agreed to go to rehab - they'd all been restless and exhausted. </p><p>Across the aisle, Tommy was stacking dominos on the floor, which was a rather vain but noble effort because the bus was moving and the dominos kept falling down in a loud clatter. Vince was ahead, reading a book but flipping the pages five seconds after he landed on them. </p><p>Mick was looking out the window, calm as could be. He looked pale, drawn, tired, but there was something that could be considered 'placid' as he stared out toward the rows and rows of corn that they were passing by. He was chewing on the edge of his thumbnail, dark eyes cold and intent. </p><p>"Just go to sleep." Mick said, his voice muffled through his nail, speaking through the side of his mouth. "If you can sleep, then more power to ya', Nik." He brushed away his hair, which was hanging over his face like a veil into the unknown. </p><p>"I have things to do." Nikki replied, and he gestured vaguely down to the notebook that he had laying on his lap, open and with his illegible handwriting covering most of the paper. "Somebody's gotta do the work, can't they?" He smiled, but it was lopsided and weak. </p><p>Blank-faced, Mick stared at Nikki through his peripheral vision. "Go to sleep." He repeated, as if he felt the other words didn't deserve any sort of response. </p><p>Nikki stared at him, about to reject the response, but, in the end, his eyes felt heavy and so he sighed, putting the cap back on his pen and setting aside his notebook. </p><p>In less than two minutes after he closed his eyes, Nikki was asleep. </p><p>             --------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><p>
  <em>It was a teenager's room - posters of rock bands in makeup and glitter, clothes tossed around the messy room. Frank had a small hunting knife that his grandpa had given him for his last birthday, and he was twisting it around, watching as the knife shined in the light coming in from the window before he looked down at his pale arm, covered in half-healed cuts and scars that would fade to the best of their ability and then remain as faint remainders. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Downstairs, there were several small noises. The sound of somebody crying and then tossing something against the wall. Frank stared down at the knife, and he tilted his head. He lowered the knife, and he pressed it down against his skin, watching as his pale skin became faintly red. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The pain blossomed. Frank watched as the blood, so dark that it was almost black, rose to the surface and then dripped down. It felt cold. Frank was cold, and he shivered, making the knife, still pressed up against his skin, shudder and the skin around the cut broke. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>A door slammed, and then heels clicked against the stairs. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"And how the tables turn." Frank muttered, lifting the knife and watching as his blood slowly spilled down onto his jeans, slow and easy, like honey. He liked honey, and remembered how his grandma used to bake honey muffins during the summertime and they tasted so sweet on his tongue. Honey muffins and lemonade, and Frank would sit on his grandpa's lap and listen to him talk about the 'good old days' while his grandma laughed softly. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Frank looked up from the knife as his door slammed open and banged against the wall with a sound comparable to a gunshot. Deanna was wearing makeup but, rather than make her look like a beautiful woman, it just twisted her features and made her look like an imitation of the woman she could've been. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>For a single, frigid moment, Frank and Deanna stared at each other. Anger and hate mingled together into a seething fire, and sadness and hurt blended together in into a bitter ice. Frank twisted his upper lip into a snarl, and he angled the knife toward his mother. "He hit you again?" He said. "Welcome to my fuckin' world." Frank tossed the knife, and it skidded across the floor. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Deanna stared, clenching and unclenching her fists. Her chest was raising and falling, up and down, up and down. "It's your fault. He wouldn't do this if you weren't so - you!" She frantically motioned around in the air. Her jewelry clincked together noisily. "If I never would've had you then I would be happy! I would be happy! We would be happy!" She stormed foward, all slutty heels and gaudy jewelry, and smacked Frank. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The aforementioned gaudy jewlery caught on Frank's lip and tore it open. The pain didn't register at first, but when Frank opened his mouth, he winced at the sharp, burning pain in his lip. "Well, it's too late for an abortion, if you haven't noticed." </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Smart-ass." Deanna said. Her gaze drifted, and she recoiled, disgusted. "You did it again. My God, you did it again." Deanna shook her head, almost as if she couldn't believe her eyes. "Freak. I gave birth to a - fucking - freak!" Her voice rose into a screech and she slapped her hand onto the desk and swiped off all of the objects. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Frank couldn't help it. He flinched. The knife fell to the ground. The cut on his lip pulled and his eyes burned. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>There was a short stretch of silence. And then Deanna laughed, high and sharp, cruel and cold. "You act so mighty and tough. And then look at you. You're just a little boy, scared of your mommy." She grabbed Frank's chin. Her nails dug into his skin, and she looked at him and smiled, and then pushed him backwards and stormed out of the room. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And then the scene dissolved...and the image changed. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was from a third view that Frank watched himself be tossed to the floor. It was from the same view that Frank watched himself be whipped hard across the back with a belt, and he watched himself be pulled up from the floor, and a knife was pressed hard against his neck. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"If you wanna do it so bad...why don't you?" </em>
</p><p>
  <em>                             -----------------------------------------------</em>
</p><p>There was a hand on his face but it was gentle. Nikki opened his eyes, and he frowned. "How long was I asleep?" He asked, and when he imaged pain, there was only his imagination. His grandma used to say that he had a great imagination, and his grandpa would say that he would do great things one day. </p><p>Mick was standing up, but he didn't remove his hand. "Two and a half hours." </p><p>The dream...Nikki knew he'd been dreaming about something. Maybe remembering something. He couldn't remember, though. Nikki rubbed at his arms without realizing that he was doing such a thing. "Was I talking in my sleep?" He asked when he couldn't figure out his own memories, flashes of a woman and pain like shooting stars. </p><p>"No." Mick lied. He didn't tell Nikki that he'd been screaming in his sleep, that he'd cried and apologized to nobody. He just held out his hand in silent invitation, not about to tell Nikki that he'd begged for mercy and twisted in his seat. "Come on, now. Let's go." </p>
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